Razor's Fourth Level Three Assignment
(This was originally meant to be the second assignment, which was to take my first assignment and write from the male character's perspective. However, part of what made that story good was not knowing what was happening in the male's head, so Ruby allowed me the freedom to submit any story from the male perspective. Surprisingly, not a single one of the stories I've written from a guy's POV.)
Private Collection
By Razor7826
(All events portrayed in this story are fictional. Copyright 2007)
I stared at my surveillance videos in absolute bliss, fitting reward to a risky job. I expected it to be just like every other simple surveillance job; snap a few photos of the absentee husband fucking his secretary and go home, my client several hundred-thousand dollars richer in divorce settlements. I'm not saying that women are always right about their husbands cheating on them, but the rich ones? Yeah, they're almost always right. N
At first glance, the Francesca case seemed the same, but it would spiral out of control, ending with the total and utter downfall of Misses Loretta Francesca.
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My notes tell me that Loretta Francesca, husband of Christopher Michael Francesca, strolled into my office at 3:34 in the afternoon of Monday the 22nd without appointment wearing a low-cut black dress, heavy makeup, and no bra. The dress only covered half her thighs, and her high heels helped accentuate her shapely legs. I long ago learned to size up clients so I could come up with a fitting quote for my services, and by the looks of her attire and the tonnage of merchandise she wore, it was obvious that she was wealthy.
Or, more precisely, that her husband was wealthy.
I stood from my leather chair as she approached my desk. I'm normally not a fan of tall women, but she handled herself to perfection, walking on her two-inch heels just enough to sway and bounce her tight ass and perfectly round tits without making it look like she was trying. She was gorgeous, but I knew better than to let lust get in the way of profit. That woman was the best meal ticket that I'd seen in a very long time, and there was no way I was going to let her get away.
I walked from around my desk and held my hand out for hers, realizing that I had forgotten to wash my hands after gelling my hair. "Good afternoon, Ma'am. Ralph Bailey, Private Investigator. What can I find for you?" I asked, the words rolling off of my tongue for the ten-thousandth time. I smiled politely, trying my hardest not to stare straight at her chest. I did a bad job of it.
She held her slender hand out to mine and weakly shook back. She frowned as she felt the grease on my hand. At that moment, I pretty much accepted that she wouldn't be paying me with favors.
"Nice to meet you, Mr. Bailey. My name is Loretta Francesca, and my husband is cheating on me with a blond whore," she stated, with a hint of contempt in her voice, obviously for her unknown adversary. "I want evidence so I can nullify our prenup, and I want it fast. I'll pay you five-thousand dollars up front, and twenty-thousand once you get me some worthwhile evidence."
I stood there for a moment, shocked at both her generous offer and brutal focus. I hated women like her, always putting the horse before the carriage, but her off was just too damn large. I'd be a fucking idiot if I let her walk away. "What makes you think he is cheating on you, and why is it with a blond woman?" I asked as I leaned back against my desk, my arms folded in front of my chest.
She reached into her purse and pulled out a plastic bag. "I know because I found the adulterous whore's hair on my husband's clothing. Twice." she responded,sure that she held in her hands concrete evidence of her husband's infidelity. She handed me the bag.
I held the evidence up to the light and looked closely. There were two distinct strands of hair, and Loretta was right- they were both blond. However, she missed the most important fact of all.
One of the hairs belonged to a natural blond. The other was not.
There were two adulterous whores, not one.
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Mr. Francesca's industrial law firm proved to be every bit as boring as one would believe industrial law to be, though his night life proved to be far more fascinating. His office employed only two women, neither of which were blond, though I knew better than to dismiss them as completely innocent. Both were damn fine, and Chris would be an idiot to pass up ass like that. For now, they were not the women I was looking for.
At eight o'clock, long after his partner and their secretaries left for the evening, Christopher Michael Francesca exited his office. He was even better groomed than his wife's photos had led me to believe. He was tall, tan skinned, with perfectly shaped black hair. He wore a gray pin-striped tailored suit. For a moment, he paused outside his office for a smoke, then started his car and made his way towards the outskirts of town. I tailed his red Beamer from afar.
After a twenty minute drive, he parked his car just outside the door to an old warehouse. I watched him enter the building, then drove by the warehouse, slowly, being as inconspicuous as possible.
Had lights not been on inside the building, I would have thought it long since abandoned. The red brick walls were cracked and crumbling. Random panes of glass were shattered or missing from the windows, and the few pieces of wood framing still intact seemed rotted and frayed. Once I saw the rusted and faded sign that hung from the front, everything made sense.
GIANCOLLI DISTRIBUTION
EST. 1922
Realizing the mess I had gotten myself into, I looked straight ahead and drove three blocks before parking my car on a deserted side street.
I felt like a blithering idiot for not recognizing the warning signs. The wealthy trophy wife. The Italian name. The lifestyle far beyond their means.
It all pointed to mob connections, and the Giancolli branding confirmed it.
Mario Giancolli was once the city's most notorious mobster. During the era of the World Wars, was the most respected and feared man in town, but after his death in 1962, the Giancolli family retreated into the shadows. However, everyone, and I mean EVERYONE, was aware they were still around, and powerful. While none of the local media acknowledge the problem, our great city has had far more than its fair share of 'disappearances' among political and labor leaders.
The more I thought, the more it all made sense. The limited information I gleaned about The Law Offices of Francesca and Trent revealed that their primary clients were nearby labor unions, the most consistent spawning ground of all for mob ties.
I almost decided right then and there to drop the case. I knew better than to fuck around with the mob, but it was just too damn hard to say 'no' to twenty-five thousand dollars. Despite the mob connections, I continued the case, though it was still too early for any risky behavior on my part. The surveillance would have to continue
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The following day played out almost exactly the same, with Christopher Michael Francesca leaving his law firm alone at promptly 8 o'clock PM. Again, he drove the same route to the warehouse and parked his car, right out in the open. I had to know what he was doing inside that warehouse.
I left my car on a side street and made my way towards the warehouse, cutting through alleys and avoiding the main streets. By the time I reached the warehouse, it was just after 10 o'clock.
I looked around, trying to find a good way to see inside the warehouse, but I found one better. A dumpster was pushed against the side of the warehouse, right next to a long string of broken windows behind which no light shone. This was clearly an unused section of the warehouse.
I quietly climbed onto the plastic lid and reached my hand through a missing pane. I pulled on the rusted handle, the lumps of oxidized iron rubbing abrasively against my fingers but it didn't open. I tried again, standing up to get more leverage. The handle swung open too fast, and my elbow reeled into a pane of glass.
As my elbow shattered that glass, my body froze. I watched and heard the fragments of glass break from the panel, then fly through the air and clatter on the ground. My heart beat faster than it had ever done, realizing the danger that I was in. I was certain the mob would kill me if saw me snooping around.
However, there was no response. No mobsters came to investigate, nor were there any signs at all that my error was recognized. Still too tempted by my love of money, I opened the window and climbed through.
The back section of the warehouse was almost completely empty, save a few crates and forklifts randomly strewn across the smooth concrete floor. The only signs of activity were the beams of light emanating from the foreman's office in the opposite corner.
I tip toed along the back wall, behind a row of large cargo containers making sure not to bump anything or let my footsteps be heard, the terror of my near death experience still fresh in my mind.
As I neared the small trailer, I could make out voices and noises which were inaudible from the other side of the warehouse. Finally, when I was within 20 feet of the small trailer, I realized the noises for what they were- erotic moans. I thought I had hit the jackpot, clear proof of Mr. Francesca cheating on his wife with some dirty blonde, no longer thinking about the extreme danger I had put myself in.
The situation was not how I imagined it, however. Instead of a passionate liaison between a lawyer and his mistress, I realized the truth of the situation.
Inside the trailer, Chris and another man stood, gloating over two women. I immediately recognized their hair as matching the samples Loretta had given me the day before, though their positions signaled they were not the mistresses I had imagined.
The two girls were bound together with tape and leather, stomach on stomach, their eyes permanently locked towards each other by a double-sided dildo gag locked into both of their mouths. I could tell that the women had been crying, but they remained in their position, un-struggling, their legs taped together in unison. Their tits bulged out against each other. Both women appeared to be young and attractive, but they were covered in so much bondage it was heard to tell for certain.
I looked at the two helpless and abused women and my cock began to stir, but it was certainly not the time to relieve myself.
I could hear the two men talking.
"So when is John going to pick these whores up?"
"He said he'd be here at around one. This is your last chance, Chris. I know how much you liked playing with those two.
Chris laughed. "I don't think playing with them is the right word. Either way, they deserve this. Dumb bitches," said Chris. He removed his coat, unbuttoned his shirt, unzipped his pants, and disrobed down to his socks. He kneeled down next to the women and said something inaudible to the top one, then took his place between their legs.
I didn't know who the women were, nor did I care, unless there was a reward of course. I knew that I had stumbled upon the Giancolli Family's long rumored human-trafficking operation.
My cock began to grow hard and sweat drenched my body. I knew I wouldn't be able to control myself while watching the scene in front of me. I placed a small wireless pen-camera on the sill of the trailer's window, then retreated back to my car. From my PDA or laptop, I would be able to view and record all that the recorder saw or heard, so as long as I was within the two block signal range. Small cameras like that aren't cheap, but they had already earned their cost back tenfold.
I watched Chris and his compatriot assault those women for over two hours, mounting them in every way possible while keeping them taped together. Over and over I could faintly hear the women came to muffled orgasms, the men dumping their cum onto the women's already filthy bodies.
I made sure to save the camera stream, but not for the police or Loretta Francesca. No, I knew what would happen if I shared evidence against the mob. If I wanted to keep my life, I could never tell anyone about what I saw that night.
Not even Loretta Francesca.
That didn't mean that keeping the videos was a bad idea. Each of the next three nights was filled with the men of the Giancolli family using and abusing their newest prey, each night targeting a new victim.
Wednesday night was the daughter of a local politician. The blonde woman screamed for her daddy all night long, but I didn't think she would ever see him again.
Thursday night's victim was some punk stoner girl that stiffed a family member. The men were especially brutal to her, probably believing she was better off dead than alive.
Friday night's guest of honor was a professor from a local college who had recently been pressuring students into the justice department. They played with her before beginning the full fledge assault, slow shredding her blouse and skirt to ribbons. Her defilement went into the early morning hours, a constant stream of men blowing their loads into her holes and across her face. I nearly wept when I was forced to cut away from the feed for an appointment with my client.
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Saturday morning, Loretta stormed into my office, fury in her eyes.
"Mr. Bailey, where the hell are those photos I paid for?" she yelled as she slammed her tiny little fist onto my desk to little effect.
I leaned forward in my chair and looked the woman over. She was dressed for business, wearing a black pants suit, a white undershirt, and moderately more practical low-heel shoes. She still wore too much blush and mascara than I preferred. Her tits were still large and liberated.
"Are you ever going to stop looking at my breasts, you perverted bastard?"
"Listen, lady, I have no idea what you're talking about," I responded, though I was pretty sure she didn't believe me.
"I paid you five thousand dollars up front, so where's my fucking evidence?" I could tell she was on the verge of coming to blows.
I lowered my voice to be more soothing and said, "Hey, I tried, but your husband looks clean." I lied. I had to keep the truth from her, no matter how much I wanted that cash.
She threw her arms up in a fit of frustration. "What the hell is with all of you poorly-dressed private eyes? Not a single one of you can find evidence of the fucking obvious, yet you find all the time in the world to stare at my tits!" she screamed. I resented that- those were glances, not stares. I was also concerned that the patients waiting to see the pediatrician next door would her accusations.
She had me intrigued. I asked "What do you mean 'all you private eyes'? Were there others? Is that why you paid offered me so much? And what's wrong with my suit?" I rather liked plaid.
Things were starting to make a lot more sense.
She sighed before continuing her berating. "You're the third. Both of those other boobs couldn't find anything either."
I knew they both found what they were tasked to, but, like myself, they saw it prudent to not piss off the mob. I wondered if this girl was stupid or naive. No private eye would dare go against the mob and I had great difficulty accepting that she had no idea what her husband and his friends did on the side.
I stood from my chair and showed Loretta Francesca to the door. "I'm sorry, but I didn't find anything. Your husband's clean, as far as I can tell. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have other business to take care of." I wanted nothing to do with her anymore or her family anymore.
"I'll sue!" she protested, as I ushered her out the door.
I knew she would play that card.
I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out the same banded wad of cash she given me five days prior. "Here, take it, I don't care. Just get the hell away from me." I slammed the door in her face and watched her get into her car and drive away.
That was not the last I saw of Loretta Francesca.
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The following Monday I returned to transceiver range in hopes of expanding my free collection of porno movies. To my pleasure, Christopher Francesca was having another show with his friends, but the real shock of the evening was the participant.
Loretta Francesca rested on her knees in the middle of the foreman's office, hands cuffed behind her back, collar around her neck, gag in her mouth. Her legs were spread with the same cum encrusted spreader bar that I had witnessed used on Loretta's predecessors. She wore the remnants of the clothing she wore on Saturday, her tits and cunt fully exposed and by the looks of it, sore from abuse.
The now familiar voice of Christopher Francesca came through my speakers. "Have my friends been treating you well? I had to... business.... ucking... un... ore... rot in hell." He spit on his wife. but she continued to stare at the floor. I assumed he didn't take news of the divorce well.
The sound from pen recorder was breaking up, and random frames were missing from the video. The signal was getting weak. By the time the sound returned, Christopher was having one last dance with his wife. He pushed her to the ground and had his way with her completely defenseless body. She moaned and screamed into her gag, but the witnesses to the crime just cheered. It was obvious that I was not the only man to dislike her.
As Christopher and his friends ravished Loretta Francesca, the signal from the recorder grew weaker and weaker. I could tell that it would be the last night I would be able to record.
I savored every moment of her defilement.
The transceiver died at 2:37 AM on the morning of the 30th. It was the last I saw of Mrs. Loretta Francesca.
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Sitting there in my darkened car, I was happy with how the job turned out. I was still kind of pissed that circumstances prevented me from claiming the reward money, but that is the nature of my job- sometimes, you get a better offer, like not ending up dead in a ditch.
Until then, I have a nice little collection of videos. Hell, if the opportunity presents itself, I just might set up another camera in there. You know, create my very own personal porn site. Who knows what the future holds.
There are more jobs in the sea, and they can't all bring windfalls of wealth. However, if you keep an open mind, you can find satisfaction in the most unlikely of places. The more I watch these videos I've collected, the more I appreciate the value of having my own private collection.
